


Fair Is Foul

by palomino333



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Insanity, Lawyers, No Man's Land, Phobias, Rats, Soldiers, Trench Warfare, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4990612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palomino333/pseuds/palomino333
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is it you fear?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Is Foul

Roger, for as long as he could remember, hated rats, though as to the exact reason why, he could never be quite sure. 

They were certainly smaller than the draft horses that quietly pulled carts and carriages. The beasts were serene but more than powerful to enough to crush him beneath their hooves, yet he felt no animosity toward them.

The rats were tiny in comparison, but aggressive, rising up on their hind legs, and bearing those yellow fangs menacingly over pieces of refuse. He could hear them scuffling under the floorboards. A trap sprung with a soft shattering of bone. Squeals and shrieks sounded as they battled over food and mates, slashing fur free with their outstretched claws. The loser fell lifeless to clog the gutter. 

His profession kept him far from the vermin, shuffling papers about into orderly piles, sitting at clean desks, and wearing pressed suits. Secretary to a defense lawyer, he quietly took diligent notes. Filth shrouded in neat pen ink and printed papers, his master dug his knuckles into the absolute carrion of the city, if only to scrape out one exclamation of “Not guilty!”

Brightly colored posters sprung up on the walls of the nearby buildings, calling the young men to arms. The city walls, once so oppressive and gray, seemed to fan outward and open for him. Yes, he would do it, he decided, placing one hand over his heart. He would fight for Britannia, as she was displayed with bright eyes and a great sword. Rather than simply attempt to defend one man in the court room, he would fight for them all.

With a flourish, he signed his life away to the army, suit and files replaced by helmet and rifle. For the latter, he was all too eager in his proficiency, knowing each man he gunned down saved one man on his side. It was a just, good war after all, and Roger knew that if one of the Huns managed to shoot him, it would be his own fault. All was fair, especially when the shots were striking sack dummies. The real thing couldn’t be that much different. 

…Could it? 

Turning over in his bunk, he resolved to think on it no further. The law was good, whether it be that of peace, or that of war.

The sensation of claws scuffling on his leg made his eyes snap open.

Tiredly, he half-contorted himself out of the curled ball he remained in, tucked into the trench wall. Picking up his rifle, he prodded the vile creature away, its yellow eyes glinting at him in the light of an exploding shell from above.

Roger dropped his head upon his knees as dirt and debris pelted onto his neck and back. He was so close to the front line, but he had barely fired his rifle. Dysentery sent the men away on stretchers, while the party poppers exploded from overhead. 

He chased after the rats now, laughing mad with his combat knife drawn. If he caught one tonight, the little vermin would no longer crawl all over him. There was one now, scuffling up the trench wall!

A gasp sounded, and he jerked backward, his teeth gritted, and fingers scraping into the showering dirt, his leg caught in a vice-like grip.

“Roger, what are you doing?!” His comrade questioned, his hand fastened tightly about his calf, “Get down from there, you’ll be killed!”

Squirming about, his teeth gritted, he exclaimed, “Let me be! I have to kill the rat!”

“Don’t!” He gasped as he was jerked downward, “There’s not even a rat there!”

“There is!” Roger snapped, kicking him hard in the shoulder and pointing upward, “Do you not see it?”

“Please, sit down, you need to rest.”

“You think me mad, don’t you?!” Kicking him hard enough to send him falling backwards, he pressed, “Well?!”

Whatever reply his comrade had for him was lost as Roger scrambled up the wall, determined to get his man, or rather, his rat, wherever that little devil went.

Roger’s eyes darted back and forth, and alighted upon the broken figure of a rat’s corpse, lying sideways upon the desolate surface of no-man’s land. 

An explosion ripped through the air, tearing his body to shreds in one single stroke. 

It was only fair.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was one of three I had submitted to my university's literary journal last spring. This piece did not make it in, but another piece I wrote did.
> 
> If I offend someone with this, I apologize in advance. I have a bad habit of writing from points-of-view that are probably ones that I should keep my nose out of, but if I had used an American soldier for this tale, I don't think the impact would have been as great. This is for the simple fact that the United States was a late comer to the First World War, and as such, didn't suffer as high a death toll.
> 
> To this day, I can't imagine what it was like to survive in the trenches. Rats and slugs were the very least of the problems.


End file.
